One hundred
Is one hundred years enough,
where it resonates, faint echo?
Faces sketched as caricatures
pinned over papered walls.
Read the diaries of the ages,
hear your lost and your found,
scatter seeds and wait for snow,
knowing you have much to learn.
We loiter here and barely grow,
and so, what words do you own
to describe a life in a sentence?
Its true worth. This gold dust.
You could try to make it rhyme
or you might even leave it blank.
Is one hundred lives suffice
to tell us everything you know?
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 17, 2020
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